


Principles of War

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode 11, War Imagery for Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 07:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8881045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A preemptive strike is still a strike, no matter how one swings it, and the aftermath—the suffering and heartache to come—is blood on his hands. He can't face what he's just done.    After the Final, let's end this.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Etharei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etharei/gifts).



> Help, help, I've fallen into this fandom and I can't get out.
> 
> Happy Xmas, [Etharei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etharei/pseuds/Etharei)! This uses precisely ZERO of the prompts you gave me, although you did say that if another idea grabbed me then I should go with it. Which, good thing, because that's what happened.
> 
> A million thanks to [dadvans](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dadvans/pseuds/dadvans) and [marianthehawke](http://marianthehawke.tumblr.com/) for looking this over.

They hang in the air with all the subtlety of a missile in free fall, and Yuuri wants to reach out and pull them back before they land, but his fingers grasp uselessly as the light in Victor's eyes blows apart under the force of the words. His sister's forced him to sit through enough WWII documentaries over the course of his life that he recognizes scorched earth when he sees it. Whatever defense had been there, whatever objectives had been put into place, are gone. Bowed to his assault without so much as a struggle, and by the time the smoke clears, there's nothing to show that any opposition had existed at all. 

_After the Final, let's end this._

Shock and awe. 

What did those generals think, after they had cut their enemy to the quick in the name of some arbitrary victory? Did it feel like a win? Did they force themselves to look the fallen in the eyes and bear witness to the damage they had done? Did any of them feel the regret that presses against Yuuri from all sides, boxing him in and closing around him until every breath is a battle, every heartbeat artillery fire? Or maybe they all slept soundly in their beds, secure in their decisions, and woke the next morning to a changed world that didn't faze them whatsoever.

A preemptive strike is still a strike, no matter how one swings it, and the aftermath—the suffering and heartache to come—is blood on his hands. He can't face what he's just done. 

The hush in the room melts into grasping hands that claw at his skin, his clothes, rending his breath from his lungs with vicious pleasure, forcing their way down his throat to get at his heart. He thinks about pressing a fist to his chest in the hopes that it'll stop them from pulling apart his ribs and finding their prize, but he stays his hand. Because with every passing second he realizes that the attack didn't just hit its intended target. It doubled back and struck home. 

"I'll let you finish getting dressed," Yuuri says, throwing a smile up like a white flag, and initiates a retreat by grabbing his coat and skate bag. His aching, trembling legs can't stand on this blood-soaked battlefield any longer. If he doesn't make it to home base soon, he'll lose everything. "I'm gonna pop out for a minute. Do you need anything while I'm gone?"

Victor stares, stunned. "Yuuri—"

"Gum, maybe? I think you left your pack in the cab earlier. I'll pick up some more, but text me if you need anything else. I won't be gone long."

When Victor gets to his feet, his eyes wild with something Yuuri can't name, it's the moment of mobilization: tanks and jets and an entire armed cavalry regrouping, cutting their losses, and striking back. Or it should be. The squadron doesn't move. "Yuuri, what are you—"

"No, no, go get dressed. I'll be fine." His feet, his stupid feet, tangle up in his haste to get to the door, toeing his shoes on, and he can't look at him, can't face any of this. What he needs is a safe haven. A ceasefire. God, how cowardly is it of him to do this when _he_ was the one who fired first. "I'll be back soon."

"Yuuri—!" But he manages to get out in time, shutting the door on whatever Victor's volley would have been. He doesn't let go of the breath he's holding hostage until the elevator doors slide closed behind him. 

Safe. For now. 

Yuuri lets his eyes fall shut and his head fall back, and every breath is assigned a number and marked as a casualty. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Four— 

The treaties they had been writing and rewriting stipulated that should one of them fall prey to the other, a ceasefire would be put into effect and aid would be given. But Victor didn't come after him. Didn't even try. Just watched Yuuri launch a failed offensive out of nowhere and then walk out the door. It's a clear violation of terms, and Yuuri doesn't know what he should be feeling. Heartbreak? Anger? Fear? D) All of the above? There's too much roiling in him to parse and no time.

Eight-one thousand. Nine-one thousand.

Yuuri shoves his fingers up under his glasses and digs them into the corners of his eyes, which have grown wet and hot, unbearably itchy, and he gives serious thought to clawing them right out of his head. 

The elevator dings and the doors open with a whisper, and Yuuri stumbles out of them with all the grace of a wounded soldier limping from the battlefield. The exit is lit up with fairy lights, a beacon of hope, oh thank god, and he makes a bee-line for freedom when— 

"Hey, pig!"

Yuuri wishes he had the kind of constitution that allowed him to just move forward, to ignore it when someone addresses him with such an authoritative voice, but he's never once blown off the acknowledgement of his superiors. 

His determined march slows to a stop and he turns to meet Yurio's flat, but puzzled gaze. Yurio is bundled in a warm sweater with his hands wrapped around a mug of something that steams. Tea, maybe, or even coffee at this hour. In the overstuffed chair to Yurio's right, Otabek peers up at him with an unreadable expression. Or maybe that's just how Otabek normally looks. Yuuri hasn't been able to get a read on him from the day they met. 

It's obvious he's interrupting something. A meeting of minds. An alliance of two, swapping strategy to secure a win for both sides. They're a united front, staring him down like he wandered into enemy territory without so much as a boot knife for protection.

"It's after midnight," Yurio says. His fingers are tight around his mug, like he's giving serious thought to pulling the handle like a pin and chucking his drink at Yuuri. "Where the hell are you going?"

Yuuri tries on a smile, but it's an ill-fitting uniform. "I'm just heading out for a bit. Sorry to have interrupted. I'll leave you two to it."

Bafflement colors Yurio's voice when he says, "I was the one who called you over here, idiot. Where's Victor?"

It's like a new offensive. Yuuri can't stop the shudder that blasts its way up his spine. He sucks in a shaking breath and attempts to save face by keeping his smile firmly pasted on.

Yurio isn't fooled. "What happened."

"Nothing. Nothing, everything's fine," Yuuri says lightly. Yurio doesn't look remotely convinced. Even to his own ears, Yuuri sounds like a spent shell, blown wide open and reshaped by fire, empty of everything that was once useful. "I just need—I just wanted to—"

"Are you all right, Katsuki?" There's an unsure kindness lurking in Otabek's otherwise stone-carved eyes. "You seem distraught."

With a hollow laugh, Yuuri waves it off and begins backing up. Retreat, retreat, retreat. "No, no, I'm just gonna head out for a while. I'll see you at the Final tomorrow. Make sure you both get some sleep, okay?"

It's not enough. Yurio has never shied away from confrontation as long as Yuuri's known him, and apparently he's not going to start now. Passing his mug to Otabek, Yurio scrambles up onto his knees and hangs over the back of his chair with a mulish snarl. "Don't you dare blow me off! What the hell is wrong? What did he do?"

"Victor didn't do anything!" He didn't do _anything_. "It was me, okay? I fired the first shot."

Yurio startles. "The first _what_?"

"Look, I'm just going to go out for a while. I'll see you tomorrow." With that, Yuuri throws up his tattered white flag and heads for the door. The roar of blood in his ears manages to drown out Yurio's angry shouting until Yuuri makes it outside and throws himself to the mercy of a Barcelona winter. It's numbingly cold, and the relief that spindles through him is like ice. 

Yes. Ice. He needs the ice. His home base is so close that he can almost taste the sharpness of it on the back of his tongue.

It takes no time at all to flag down a taxi, although he has to give the driver directions using Google Images, as the poor man doesn't speak English or Japanese, and Yuuri can't say anything in Spanish except _hola_ and _Estoy perdido. ¿Dónde está el baño?_ It's nearing one in the morning by the time they pull in front of their destination and Yuuri is so pathetically grateful to see it that he tips the man almost an obscene amount of money and trips out of the car.

He's only been to FC Barcelona's rink a handful of times, but the security officer who worked the late shift the last time Yuuri came knocking is still there and is just as happy to see him as he was then. Which is to say, not at all, but the man still lets Yuuri inside with barely a protest. 

"¿Por qué diablos siempre llegas tan tarde?" The officer mutters under his breath, unlocking the doors to the rink, and Yuuri can only imagine what that means, so he mumbles a clumsy _gracias_ and hustles as quickly past as he can. 

The doors swing shut behind him, the echo burrowing into his bones, leaving him alone with the dim lighting of the rink. He closes his eyes and exhales. At once, the walls crushing him pull back a little, and the clawed hands scrabbling for purchase around his heart ease; for a moment, it's a detente.

His head swims a little when he opens his eyes, but his legs are steady when he drops his bag to the floor and replaces his shoes with his skates. They're a couple of years old but painstakingly cared for, and have seen and done things that most haven't. When he ties them, he double knots them the way he's always done, ever since he was thirteen and read an article about the proper way to tie your skates, as demonstrated by— 

All the air in his lungs punches out of him as though he's taken a hit, and he just barely manages to catch himself before his knees buckle. 

Victor did nothing. Didn't follow him. He had plenty of time, minutes upon minutes to catch the next elevator or run down ten flights of stairs and stop Yuuri from walking out. It's what should've happened. It's what Victor should have done, because that's what Victor does. He doesn't lose—even his name is testament to that fact. Yuuri had been counting on retaliation, had prepared himself for a fight, but nothing could have ever prepared him for immediate surrender.

The inaction is somehow worse than Yuuri's deliberate self-sabotage. In all of Mari's countless documentaries and films, he doesn't remember any side setting themselves on fire to prevent the other from doing it first. He doesn't know if there's a name for that. 

Because the fact is, Victor can sit on the sidelines and impart his wisdom all he wants, but his home is on the ice—always has been, always will be. His battles are fought on the edge of a blade, his victories all won with the crowd roaring his name. To be kept from the arena, to bind his legs and his soul in chains and force him to watch his foes and allies flaunt their freedom, is an atrocity. The ISU should be levying sanctions against Yuuri.

It was all over Victor's face when he'd been watching a fifteen-year old meet him as an equal on the battlefield and undo all he had done: Dissatisfaction. Longing. Envy. Admiration. Yuuri has never brought any of those out in Victor, and he'll never be good enough to do so. He's already twenty-four; the clock counting down to the end of his career has already been wound up. It's only a matter of time before whatever love Victor feels for him morphs into resentment, leaving them nothing to do except give way beneath it. That's how it starts: with the dissolution of an alliance that had once been beautiful. 

And then, all out war.

The light from the rink is just bright enough to catch on the gilded edge of his ring, and the glint sets off a warning flare behind his eyes.

_We'll get married after you win gold._

Better to end it now, crush it to dust and salt the earth, before it can be done to him first. He won't be on the top podium tomorrow; it's an impossibility. And though Victor might have been joking when he said that, the day will come when Victor looks at him and doesn't see anything worth staying for. There will be no coming back from that kind of decimation. No matter how much it hurts now, no matter that it feels as though there's a smoking impact crater in his chest and his edges have been reduced to rubble, it will be a million times worse when Victor realizes the terms of their alliance are no longer reciprocal, and he dissolves it. 

Better to end it before Victor beats him to the punch. 

Swallowing around the blockade in his throat, he drops his glasses to the floor, wipes his eyes on his sleeve, and, iPod clutched in his hand, makes his way out onto the ice. At the far end of the rink is the small dock he used the last time he was here. Thankfully they haven't switched to a new model and his connecter port still fits; if he had to do this in complete silence, he'd lose his mind.

When Yuuri was younger, he used to spend hours upon hours on the ice, his hands reaching out for the ghost of a touch, taking the negative space around him and filling it with the idea of Victor Nikiforov, living for the hope that one day they might meet and ratify something genuine between them. Phichit always made time to watch him when he did this, and every time Yuuri let the pretense end, Phichit would quietly ask who it was that was out on the ice with him. _Do they know you love them so much that you'd fight battles for them, Yuuri?_

Minako used to jokingly say it was like watching a war with a happy ending.

The day Victor declared himself Yuuri's coach, a small part of him struck without warning from the dark corners of his heart, _Maybe now_. He forced that rebellion to the shadows on the outskirts, because it had no place in his new world order, but every so often it would attack when it sensed he was weak, and he would allow himself to think about it. He and Victor, together on the ice, battling together against the music, feeding off each other's strengths and supporting each other's weaknesses. Equals.

But the opportunity never arose, and now never will. 

It seems fitting that he should be in this empty arena, playing what should have been their victory song, alone. 

[**The strains of the violin**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Boi6PfDeNg) that slide from the speakers spill onto the ice, sweet and haunting, and for a moment he feels the brush of fingers against his hand, asking him to come, and he pushes away from the wall gently, allowing himself to listen but it's gone. All he can hear is the music. When its kind melody hastens into something sinister, he kicks away into a backwards crossover, rushing to rally his troops, bolster them for battle. 

Abruptly, the music changes to a war cry, and his feet move faster than they ever did when he was twelve, years of experience and the tumult of tonight giving them the speed that he could never quite find when he needed it in competition. But the fate of the world is counting on him. He can't afford to be slow. The step sequence is complex and almost impossible, and every second feels like the moment before a scream, an inhale, and he spins and spins, and his feet barely touch the ice. Ahead of him, they've set up a barricade, and if he can't break through, if he can't reach his soldiers, it will be over.

But then a hand takes his as the building tension breaks, and he bursts into the air, over fields and mountains and the spreading cancer of invasion, landing gratefully without so much as a wobble. He spins and spins, the twist of a fired bullet, emboldened by fire and metal, until he can no longer sustain the assault. With a swift spread eagle, he uses the momentum to throw his hands out as he moves backwards into neutral territory, reaching for the touch of this new ally, and his fingers close over familiar palms, tangling together. _Follow me, fight by my side, stay close to me,_ he implores, pressing back into muscle. His head touches the strong shoulder of his companion, lolls to the side to let the rush of breath sweep over the skin of his throat, a sign of utter trust, and he closes his eyes, allows someone else to carry the weight for just a moment. 

The hands holding his spin him outward, and there's the whisper of movement, the strike of a knife's edge upon the ice, and his ally comes for him, sliding questing fingers over his hips, finding a place to hold tight. Together, they move, uniting their sides against the enemy, and the music splits until there are two strains of the same notes, entwined and playing as one. 

But the fight isn't over, and his ally pushes him into a blinding one-foot spin, and he gives himself over to it without any hesitation, and the music readies itself for a second attack, picking up speed as he does, matching him. 

His feet follow the sequence, faster and painful and there are soldiers falling around him. The air is clogged with smoke and the deafening thunder of a firefight, but he sprints across the field to meet his foe, his ally at his side, and together they take to the sky, spinning hard, before bringing the assault back to the ground, but he doesn't want to lose the advantage of an air strike just yet, so he pushes himself up one more time, and spins and spins, then ducks down low to avoid a new volley. It misses, and he heaves himself up to get to safer ground. 

When he crosses back, his feet take him back to the arms of his ally, and he presses into this man with ecstatic relief. The power to gain advantage over the music is there, but it's a fleeting probability; all they need is one final strike with everything they have to end this. But together. It has to be together. If they can't do this one thing, the battle will be over and they will fracture apart. 

On the back of a sweet, keening note, phantom hands tilt his head up and they breathe together—smoke and loss and the promise that, when this is over, they will be the last ones standing. 

_Stay close to me, Victor_.

The music builds a final time, a last-ditch effort to bring them down, gathering all its troops and firepower for a world-ending finale, but they're ready for it, building too, and his feet follow the sequence one more time, just fast enough to gain the momentum he needs to break into the air again, and coming on the heels of an exploding bomb, together they spin—once, twice, thrice, and finally a fourth time—

And that's it. That's just enough to unleash themselves and turn the tide. He hits the ice hard but doesn't fall, and he glides into a grateful embrace, noses knocking together, cheeks smeared with tears and mouths full of laughter, and it's with a mournful cry at its own defeat that the music finally gives up and concedes.

The last note softens with quiet joy, and he loops to a stop, closing his eyes and lifting his mouth to meet the kiss of the victorious, his own fingers at his lips, and now, together, they can live.

Heart beating a tattoo against his ribs, every breath lancing pain through his sides, Yuuri opens his eyes and stares at the blackness of the ceiling, tears spilling over his cheeks as the flush of victory leaves him alone.

A new song begins to play, the familiar raindrops of piano keys, and _Yuri on Ice_ cheerfully tells him to accept his defeat. 

Shuddering, suddenly cold, cotton mouthed and head full of gauze, he forces himself to push through the ache of overuse and failure to make the long march back to the iPod dock to shut it off, but he stops at the blurry flash of movement from the outside of the rink. It's too dark and he's too far away to see the two blobs of vague color standing at the boards, but he could be completely blind and would still know who they are. With any luck, his heart will give out from the exertion and the fear before he gets to where Victor and Yurio wait for him.

Yuri steps forward to meet him, leaving Victor in the shadows.

"H-How long have you been—" His breathless attempt at normalcy is slapped right out of his mouth by a quick hand, and Yuuri's head snaps to the side. Shock prevents him from moving for a second or two, then he turns his head and can just make out the rage and humiliation on Yurio's face.

"You bastard," Yurio whispers, and his voice trembles like the ground beneath fighter jets in the moment before takeoff. "How _dare_ you."

Yuuri brings a hand to cover the sting on his cheek. "Yurio—"

"You insult me and everyone else by not skating like that in competition! How dare you hold yourself back when the rest of us are giving our all! Is it out of pity that you do this? Make us think you can barely qualify when in reality none of us ever stood a chance?" It's a declaration with terms that Yuuri can't quite understand. "Were you planning to throw the competition this whole time?"

He has no idea what's happening. What is Yurio even implying? "No, of course—"

"Then I don't understand!" It echoes throughout the rink like bombs striking in the distance, unable to be distinguished from thunder or the flare of fireworks. He's never seen Yurio so angry. "All this time, you've skated like it means nothing to you, like you can simply live with the defeat and ridicule, but this—what you just did—I don't know _why_ you've performed all this time like you have nothing to lose when I just watched you win a war!"

There are things he should be saying, words that should be forming in his mouth, but they've deserted him, and Yuuri stands there like a gaping idiot, utterly disarmed.

Yuri shoves something against Yuuri's chest, and he has to scramble to not drop it. The familiar clack of his glasses hits him like a gunshot. When he puts them on, the world sharpens into focus and he can see the flush of something—something like awe on Yurio's face, the glistening of angry tears in his eyes. 

"Yurio," Yuuri murmurs, but he doesn't know what to say.

Apparently he needs to say nothing, because Yurio takes the opportunity out of his hands anyway with a loud, obnoxious sniff. "I only compete against the best. If you don't bring what you can really do to the Free Skate and make amends for holding out on me, I will _kill_ you and bury your body in the woods behind your house. Victor, fix your fuckup. I'll be in the car."

With that, Yurio spins around in a whirl of gold hair and pomp, storming out of the rink. 

The silence that falls when the doors slide shut is louder than a bomb strike could ever hope to be, and it rattles Yuuri's bones hard enough that he has to clench his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. It's like standing in front of a firing squad, waiting to see which bullet wins the race to stop his heart.

He can't look up from Victor's second-favorite pair of shoes, all buttery soft, Italian brown leather that cost more than all of Yuuri's shoes, skates, and boots put together. The ugly yellow ducky shoelaces are comforting, though, even blurry as they are through his tears.

Any second now the declaration will be made, and everything will come crumbling down around Yuuri. Already the walls press warningly against him, waiting for the signal so they can crush him completely. All he can do is hope that whatever decision Victor has come to, it will be said kindly, and they can bypass the fighting altogether. Maybe he'll even let Yuuri keep the ring—a gilded reminder of what they had, a memory to be cherished when he's back home in Hasetsu and Victor has returned to the front lines where he belongs.

With one last look at his ring, Yuuri closes his eyes, spent, and gives himself over to Victor's mercy. 

He's prepared for anything: cold words, accusations, pleas and demands to know why—even a _No one's ever dumped me before, this is all very new to me_ wouldn't be shocking. In fact, Yuuri's pretty sure it's actually true. 

But cold fingers like a creeping nerve agent slide up his throat to cup his jaw, and Yuuri startles into opening his eyes, adrenaline and anticipation shaking him to ruin. Victor stares at him, eyes wide, wet lashes clumping together like little knife points, and the hands holding Yuuri's face are vibrating with something huge and nameless. Fresh tears well up and spill down Yuuri's cheeks, gathering on Victor's thumbs, which smear them over his skin like a balm. 

This isn't the unattainable god of the ice, nor the clever and quick ally he found in his loneliness, but simply a man shaken to his very core. Destroyed, utterly and completely, reshaped by war, ready to rebuild. 

With him. 

A sob catches in Yuuri's chest like an atom bomb and he practically throws himself at Victor to crush their lips together. Almost immediately, the hands on his face slide back, gripping the back of his head and hip, clutching him close like a living weapon, the only sure thing in the chaos of a battle. 

"Yuuri," Victor whispers against his mouth, every word riding the edge of urgent relief so sharp that it cuts Yuuri down to the quick. The hand in Yuuri's hair tightens to the point of pain. "Yuuri, I love you. I _love you_. You don't know how—You don't understand—"

"I'd fight for you." Yuuri drags his tongue over Victor's ridiculous cupid's bow, tilts his head back so Victor can fix his teeth to the skin at the stretch between Yuuri's ear and neck. "I'd fight every battle for you. Victor, I would fight—"

Their kisses verge on outright assault, rending flesh with tongue and teeth in their attempts to climb inside each other, but it's brilliant and real, lighting every part of him up inside, and the walls that had been closing in blow back until he's little more than pink mist. Victor is the only thing keeping him from floating away.

Eventually the fury fades and they soften against each other, every kiss languid, like coming home after a long campaign and seeing the front door is exactly the same as it was when they left. They pull apart slowly, reluctantly, taking small, sipping kisses as they go, until Yuuri drops his forehead to Victor's shoulder and breathes hard.

"Yuuri." God, he'll be ninety years old and still having palpitations at the way Victor says his name like that, like a code, a secret told in the strictest of confidences. Victor wraps him up tight, presses his mouth to Yuuri's hair, and murmurs, "I will _never_ want to end this."

He shudders, his face hot. "Not even if I don't place?"

"Not even if you never set foot on the ice again," Victor says, and Yuuri can _feel_ it when the fear leaves him for good. "There are a million battles to be fought, my Yuuri, and I want to take all of them on with you."

"Victor—"

Victor pulls back just a little, enough to flash a wobbly smile. "It was me, wasn't it. Out on the ice with you just now."

"It's always been you, Victor. It's always you," Yuuri confesses, breathless, and when he looks up, a devastating joy breaks over Victor's face like dawn over endless stretches of poppies. Most of Mari's war documentaries ended with those fields, as if to remind everyone that even after all the pain, suffering, and killing, there was always something beautiful waiting to grow from the ashes.

A thumb comes up to brush the delicate skin under his eye. "You were incredible out there."

"We," Yuuri corrects him, wrapping his arms around Victor's neck. "We were."

For a moment, he thinks of the confetti and ticker tape that comes after all the battles end; the unity and the balloons and strangers dancing in the streets, all of them infected by the bone-deep relief that manifests as ecstasy. In a handful of hours, he'll be competing for the chance to wear gold around his neck, but it's not the reason he fights, just as the parades and celebrations aren't the reason wars are fought. 

Smiling, Yuuri tugs Victor down for one last kiss before they go. 

There's a name for this kind of victory. _Decisive._

Whatever it is, it's theirs.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://rcmclachlan.tumblr.com). It's turned into ice rink hell over there.


End file.
